


if i only could

by enonymous



Category: Dream Team RPF, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Relationship, Realistic Minecraft, shh its okay the entire story is about getting him back, theyre very much in love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25768186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enonymous/pseuds/enonymous
Summary: It happens fast, too fast, in between one breath and the next: Dream lands on the other side of the ravine, laughing, turning to steady George-And George's foot just misses the grass. Dream doesn't even get to see his body hit the ground.(inspired by orpheus & eurydice)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), dreamnotfound - Relationship
Comments: 29
Kudos: 314





	1. the deal i'm making

**Author's Note:**

> here it is: the orpheus/eurydice dreamnotfound au literally no one asked for, because im a ho for greek mythology. normal disclaimer - respect dream & george, don't shove it in their faces, personas not people, i'll take this down if they ever so ask, etc. hope u enjoy <3

It happens fast, too fast, in between one breath and the next: Dream lands on the other side of the ravine, laughing, turning to steady George-

And George's foot just misses the grass, shock twisting his smile a moment too late, plummeting with his fingers outstretched like he'd been reaching for Dream. His name rips out of George's throat, filled with terror, so close to safety, so close to Dream, so far-

Dream doesn't even get to see his body hit the ground. But he hears the guttural, final cut-off of George's voice.

* * *

And he doesn't get to cradle George's body, afterwards, the fading warmth and broken limbs and unseeing eyes. Dream knows what death is, to the things of this world, but he still sits among the scattered items that George had been carrying, the leather cap he'd insisted on dyeing, his dented armour, stroking the near-blunt edge of his sword until the sun is painting the sky orange and red, wilting into dusk. The bottom of the ravine is dotted with resources, gold and iron they would have mined and smelted together if Dream hadn't- if he'd just-

(Hadn't George complained about being hungry, earlier? Hadn't he hurt himself jumping down from that tree? Hadn't he asked, over and over, to take a safer route over caves and cliffs and lava and-)

Dream digs out an indent in the stone, just big enough for someone to lie in. He fills it with dirt. He plants a single cornflower, vibrant blue, petals unfurling to the dying sun. And then he pulls himself from the ravine, because he knows what he now needs to do. 

* * *

He stumbles into the village as the next dawn creeps over the horizon, exhausted and hungry and desperate. He's never had much reason to seek them out before, but he wanders along the empty village paths until he finds it- the librarian's home, exactly where it had been when the two of them had passed through with extra wood and coal to trade in for food and arrows, just a few days ago. Now all Dream has left is a handful of emeralds and a pit of grief where his heart should be. George had always been the one more inclined to reading legends and tales between them- he'd know what to do, now, while Dream only has the trailing ends of flickering hope and a waning memory of George rambling to him about worlds beyond the living while they lay in their beds, hands almost touching. Dream wishes he'd listened, instead of losing himself in the rise and fall of George's voice.

It's so early that anyone with reason is still asleep; Dream collapses in the morning dew dotting the grass and waits for the world to rise, curling around his knees and wishing he could just sleep and then wake with George next to him, face soft with rest, blinking against the sunlight through the trees. He trades his iron helmet for the well-worn purple leather cap and waits. It's a beautiful morning. It's terribly unfair. The world without George should be- he doesn't think too hard about that. The silence is too loud, broken only by his own breathing and the wind whispering in the grass, through the leaves.

The lock of the librarian's door clicks. Dream stands, damp with morning dew, stained with tears, and knocks before he enters.

The villager standing by the lectern clearly remembers him, because his eyes flicker across Dream's face, his scratches and cuts, and over his shoulder, confused, before a quiet sympathy settles at the corners of his mouth. George's absence is a physical thing. Dream presses his lips together and, voice rough, asks for the man's books on the world after this one, whatever comes at the end: the End. The sorrow doesn't leave the librarian's face, and there's an understanding there that Dream can see- the language of villagers isn't one he has learned, but they both know full well what he is going to do.

He ends up with several different leather bound tomes pushed into his arms, loaves of bread and some freshly baked potatoes. The librarian refuses payment, just points towards the center of the village where the house they'd stayed one night in still stands, unoccupied. Dream, tired, bruised, determined, manages a smile that might be more of a grimace, along with his thanks. The village is slowly waking around him as he makes his way down to the little hut, but the sounds of farmers working and of people wandering the paths fades to background noise as he throws himself into his books.

He’d only ever been vaguely aware of these worlds- one hellish hot, the air dank and steaming, the other one a void, dotted with islands and sprawling cities and abandoned ships. He's never had reason to seek them out, not when he had forests to travel and caves to explore and George, their perfect, aimless contentment. It was George who'd sought out stories, before, those older than even villages. Now it's just him. He reads of lava and fortresses, eyes and portals and strongholds underground, of dragons- 

Dragons who trade a life for a life, theirs for one lost to the void. A prize more valuable than any hoard. Dream reads of eyes and portals and an endless darkness filled with souls, only one of which matters to him.

He leaves the village just after midday, heart in his throat. He knows what he needs to do.

* * *

It’s a few hours of tired trudging before grass and roots and sand start to mix, the sun burning merciless at his back even as it dips towards the trees. The footprints between the cacti he and George had left over a week ago have long been swept away by the wind, but he can trace the easy, meandering route they'd taken together over the dunes- he grits his teeth against the urge to cry. It's ironic, and fitting, that he's moving backwards; it'd feel wrong to keep going without George. There's nothing to see, anyways. Just more grass and roots and sand. 

He misses it, the nights spent lit by torches, George at his side, grinning even as they compete to shoot down a creeper. Misses taking turns to sleep out in the open, watching the rise and fall of George's chest in the watery moonlight. He misses George. So much it's exhausting. So much it hurts.

The sun's nearly gone by the time he finds it- a pit of lava, bright as a flare against the creeping darkness of a moonless night, bubbling and crackling as he digs out some sand to dump his water into. The desert is still warm with the remnants of sunlight, and this close to the lava, the heat sticks his hair to his forehead with sweat. It's with trembling hands that he- carefully, slowly, far too slowly- picks up and places lava and water, over and over, desperate to not make a mistake, watching as they harden into an obsidian frame that's taller than he is, wide enough for two. 

It's with trembling hands that he strikes together his flint and steel, watching the sparks catch purple and the portal flare to life with a cacophony of sound unlike anything he's heard before. It whispers and hisses, and in another life (one where he's more careful, one where he listens, one where he catches George's hand before it slips from his grasp-) they'd step into it without any fear, shoving each other in an attempt to reach a new world first, even as their vision distorts and the sky fades from view. 

George isn't here, though. So Dream closes his eyes and tries to pretend he's not terribly, terribly alone.


	2. doesn't hurt me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Nether is a lonely place.

Dream opens his eyes to an overwhelming heat. The Nether greets him with the wails of distant mobs and a pool of lava bigger than he's ever seen, popping and bubbling just beneath the small overhang that his portal's spawned on. He steps out of the frame onto a red ground, softer than stone but not quite dirt; fires crackle around him, casting flickering light that makes every shadow move as if it's alive. He has to pause to take a few deep, grounding breaths of air, wincing as they heat his throat uncomfortably; he's already sweating underneath his armour. It's so hot, and so loud, and it's so, so lonely.

The weight of his mission suddenly hits him, all at once; Dream slumps against the portal, sweat beading at his temples, staring but not really seeing across the lava at some sort of blue expanse of tree and grass just a few dozen blocks away. Almost hysterically, he thinks to himself,  _ how the fuck does anything grow here? _ and then,  _ I'm not safe out in the open,  _ and then,  _ I want to go home. _

Home is at the bottom of a ravine right now. Home is one flickering light among thousands in an endless inky void. So he buries his head in his hands, tries and mostly succeeds at calming his breathing, and sets down a crafting table to make himself a pair of golden boots. He hasn't seen one of those pig-things yet, but he doesn't want to test his luck, and he ignores the way he takes out enough gold for two pairs of boots. He doesn't have the time to be sentimental. He's in a new world with nearly no knowledge of his surroundings, all alone, and he's George's only way back to the sunlight. He has to be careful. He can't fail.

There's a nagging, unsatisfied curiosity at the back of Dream's mind as he sets off across the red ground; he wants to know what George would say about the heat, the distant wailing, the valley of dark sand dotted with blue fire that he passes. What he'd say about the pig-men armoured in gold and bearing crossbows that watch him with wary eyes as he darts by, the ones half-rotted that don't seem to notice him at all. Wonders if George would try to offer them gold, if he'd try to catch their attention. George, George, George.  _ I'll bring him here, just to show him, _ is what he repeats to himself like a mantra, as he pushes himself forward, and it eclipses into  _ I'll bring him back. I'll bring him back. I'll conquer every world between us and I'll bring him back. _

He doesn't know how long he runs- there's no sun or moon by which to track the passage of time, and he only stops briefly to eat every now and again before resuming. The heat doesn't nearly bother him as much as it had at first; a part of him wonders if it would be possible to make a base in one of those vibrant blue forests he'd passed, before discarding the thought. It would be too dangerous to stay here long-term, after all. And he'd miss the way George looks bathed in sunlight.

Dream skirts around another biome- this one almost headache-inducingly crimson, red fungus and vines and some sort of large, tusked creature hidden among the bright ferns- and ducks through a small tunnel, emerging onto a wide, flat cliff. The light from the ocean of lava that laps at the magma shoreline below makes him squint, briefly, before his heart soars- red bricks, so dark they're nearly black, form pillars that rise from the ground and the lava, dozens of blocks into the air. Dream can just barely see the heads of mobs wandering the bridges that connect the massive supports from this angle; he has to crane his neck to catch another glimpse of one of the zombie-pigs. He's finally found one- a fortress.

With new energy he closes the distance and begins to tower up the nearest pillar with cobble, casting nervous glances as he moves steadily- a fall from this height would kill him. Perhaps it would be fitting. He shakes that thought from his head and focuses on how the brick, surprisingly, doesn't radiate heat- it's cool to the touch, and the sound it makes against the metal of his armour makes a shiver crawl down his spine. He's almost glad when he swings a leg onto the long walkway and his chestplate stops scraping against the brick with every breath; the clank of his boots against it as he makes his way into the heart of the fortress isn't nearly as grating. 

He's only got a vague idea of what he's looking for- some flying creature of gold and ash that spits fire and drops rods, of which he needs at least six. He doesn't remember what they're called. If George were here, they'd go back and forth coming up with silly names for the new mobs- instead, Dream checks around every corner before he starts down a hall, jumping at every pig-man's grunt and every distant wail. He's too busy side-eyeing the tall, ashen skeletons bearing stone swords patrolling a bridge over him that the string of fire manages to catch him completely unawares; it ignites the ground in front of him, the sudden light and heat making him fumble as he grabs his shield from his inventory. 

Down the hall is his attacker- something like a skull with bright eyes, surrounded by golden rods and smoke, staring at him even as he raises his shield.  _ A blaze _ . The mob's next attack hits the center of it, and, somewhat frantically, he mentally notes how long he has between attacks as he slowly advances. He deflects another round of fire before darting in with his sword- the sharp edge of his blade glances off two of the floating rods, disintegrating them into a fine powder on contact. It lets out a sound like metal dragging across stone and lights the brick under his feet on fire. 

Instinct sends him running; Dream cries out and turns tail, disappearing around the corner as fire licks at his ankles for a long few seconds before tapering off. His heart beats rabbit-fast in his chest as he gasps for breath, wincing when the scorched skin of his legs pulls painfully with every movement he makes. Shakily, he tears through a loaf of bread as the pain slowly subsides, still shaky with adrenaline, and presses himself closer to the brick wall while his burnt skin knits itself back together and smooths out over his bones. 

He's trembling so hard with shock and fear and the trailing ends of pain that he can barely lift his shield. He's been injured before, of course, burnt by campfires and mishaps with flint and steel, but the mob, the blaze, is something new entirely. Unfamiliar and dangerous, and there's no one to watch his back. 

He grits his teeth. Steps out from around the corner and raises his shield. He tries not to think.

The first blaze doesn't drop anything; it catches each of Dream's attacks on one of its golden rods, and by the time he's split its skull with a dull, metallic crunch, there's none left intact. He's far more careful with the next one he finds, floating at the end of another dark hall; eight golden rods catch the brunt of his attacks and crumble, but the last drops to the brick with a clink when he finally destroys the blaze's head. It's smooth in the palm of his hand, warm with residual life, and carefully, carefully, he tucks it into his bag.

It takes more wandering into the spiraling halls of the fortress, but two stray blazes later he finally finds it- a spawner, three sets of eyes turning their piercing gazes to him as soon as he rounds the corner. He raises his battered shield again against the consecutive trails of fire directed at him before he rushes in, recklessly- one wide sweep of his blade crushes several rods into an unsalvageable dust, and the blazes he'd managed to hit shriek and spin, the smoke making his eyes sting. Dream cuts them all down with an increasingly ruthless efficiency and stands, panting, five golden rods tucked away, wiping the sweat from his face. He waits for more blazes to spawn.

The next round of them is a blur of heat and pain; he watches smoke seep from the spawner and gather into one golden form, and then another, a third and fourth. He skewers the first before the last two have managed to fully take shape, catching the blaze rod before it burns in one of the fires dotting the platform around him, but takes the full brunt of the second's attack to his back. Dream whirls and slashes, grits his teeth against the pain, and when the last blaze lights the ground under him on fire he steps through it without hesitation and splits its skull down the middle. 

The quiet afterwards is almost overwhelming. Dream’s heart is too loud in his chest, pounding in his ears, and his adrenaline leaves him quickly, exhaustion seeping into his limbs like an afterthought. He's almost out of bread, and the inside of his mouth tastes like ash, dry as bone. Exhaling shakily, he checks his inventory.

He has eight blaze rods. 

The realization pulls a startled laugh out of his throat; Dream presses his hands to his head and breathes through the wave of relief. It's a ridiculously easy task to take his pick and splinter the spawner into dust, and he nearly flies through the halls of the fortress, ducking past the stone blades of those menacing skeletons, passing by stray blazes without pause. He barely breathes as he tears down the dirt pillar he’d towered up on, setting off the way he’d come. Past the fires and pig-men and the crimson biome, red as a bloodstain marring the ground. 

_ George can’t see red _ , Dream thinks, and doesn’t look back. 

Illuminated by the lava pool, his portal is a welcome sight, the swirling purple starkly visible. Dream all but throws himself at it, obsidian a cool relief- he doesn’t close his eyes as he goes through, even though his vision twists nauseatingly. The lava distorts and disappears; it’s the first time he feels victorious.

Dream almost cries at the first breath of clean, fresh air, the pressing heat of the desert meagre in comparison to the Nether. The sun bears down on the sand, nearly blinding, but he squints against it, gasping for breath; there’s no time for crying. He needs to keep moving.

The footsteps he’d left in the sand have been swept away by wind, but it’s not difficult to retrace his path to the village; he stumbles onto the worn path as the sun disappears behind the treeline, exhaustion pulling at his bones. The village is quiet and still, yellow light settling in pools underneath windows. The house he was lent is dark and silent.

Covered in ash, hungry, tired, so, so lonely, he collapses in his borrowed bed and doesn’t think about how the space next to him is empty. He sleeps, and in his dreams George steps through the portal with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been so long, writing this is kicking my ass :') next chapter should be the last!! hope you enjoyed <3
> 
> i'm now on twitter @enon_ymous!

**Author's Note:**

> fic & chapter titles are from running up that hill (a deal with god) by kate bush- _if i only could / i'd make a deal with god / and i'd get him to swap our places_
> 
> trying to make a block video game somewhat realistic was a pain in the ass... so if i did okay consider leaving a comment, it'd really make my day 👉👈 thank u for reading! 
> 
> i'm on tumblr [@enonymous](https://enonymous.tumblr.com/), u can also add me on discord (enonymous#9656) :>


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